About six years ago I bought two houseplants at a supermarket. I took them home, repotted them, and found what I thought would be good a spot for each of them. But they did not do well. They both seemed sickly.
I tried different things – a location with more sun, less sun; more water, less water; a different pot. Nothing seemed to help. They didn’t look healthy. But they didn’t die, either. I couldn’t seem to make them thrive, but I wasn’t killing them, either, so I kept doing my best to care for them.
After a few years, one of the plants started perking up. For no apparent reason. It started putting out bright new leaves, it grew full and bouncy, like it just decided one day to pull itself out of this funk and show some self-respect. And I am pleased to say, it has continued that way ever since.
But the other plant? Nothing. It is still the same as ever. Not dead, but not really vibrant. I still feed it, water it, make sure it gets enough sunlight. But I feel frustrated, disappointed with it, and I wonder: Is it time to give up on this plant? When would be the time to give up?
The parable of the fig tree asks us to consider this question: when is something no longer worthy of our care? When is something no longer worthy of life? When do we give up on something – or perhaps even this: when do we give up on someone?
Because anyone hearing this parable cannot help but think that this pathetic little fig tree is standing in for us – fallen humankind. Because immediately before this point, they weren’t chatting about horticulture. Jesus was teaching his followers about sin and repentance.
The conversation he was having seemed to be focused on why bad things happen to people. I don’t know how they got on this topic but they did. It is something that seems to happen on the regular – in fact, we talked about it just last week, didn’t we? It is a matter that we often find ourselves thinking about; it makes us uneasy to think that these things happen for no reason at all. It would be so much better to think there is a cause and effect for all bad things in the world; that we have some control over everything. And so we look for a reason when things go bad. This person had an accident, we say, because he was careless. That person got cancer, we decide, because she ate the wrong foods. Those people who were in the Twin Towers on 9/11 … well, clearly they did something to deserve their fate even if we don’t know what it was.
But it’s wrong, isn’t it? And Jesus rejects it – this idol of absolute control. Jesus’ message is this: You say these people who suffered were sinners, and this is true. But you are sinners too. You say that these people who were victims of that tragic accident were sinners, and this is true. But you are sinners too.
And by the way, you should repent, Jesus says. Repent.
Repentance is also a familiar topic. We are Presbyterians, who confess our sins together every week. We are pretty well trained to put our flaws under a magnifying glass so we can feel the cringe of knowing we are not, and probably never will be, perfect. And still we expect ourselves to keep trying and trying harder. That, also, is part of the fabric of our faith.
Repent is not a new idea to us. When Jesus says his follows should repent, we don’t question it. (It’s like your mother always said to you, what everybody else is doing is not your concern, you just mind your own behavior. The warning to repent is always lurking in the background.)
But do you mind if I ask – repent of what? I don’t mean to be cheeky when I say this. I don’t mean to make the irreverent suggestion that we are without sin – because we know that is untrue. I am only asking if, in this case, there is something particular that Jesus would have us repent of?
What if Jesus wants us to repent of this kind of idolatry, this way of thinking? The notion that there is a one-to-one correspondence between sin and circumstances?
Because, if there were such a strict correspondence, then surely every one of them would have been killed by Pilate. At one time or another. Every one of them would have been crushed by the tower of Siloam. Or some other tower some other time.
If God were such a rigid and harsh task master, then every one of us would have suffered as much, for we are all sinners. But God is gracious and merciful. God is forgiving.
Again and again, people ask Jesus to connect the dots for them. Why is this man blind? Was it his sin or his parents’ sin? Why did these Galileans get killed? But Jesus won’t draw that line for them.
Jesus, instead, tells a parable. A fig tree that will not bear fruit. Perhaps it appeared healthy in every other way, but would simply not bear fruit. The owner of the land says to his gardener, “Cut it down. It’s useless and taking up space.” But the gardener, who has been tending it – watering and feeding it, pruning it – he says, allow me to keep trying. Let it go for another year. Just give me one more year, the gardener asks.
Don’t give up on it yet.
The best thing, and the worst thing, about this parable is that Jesus leaves it unresolved. It is as though the last pages of the story have been torn out.
And because of that, there are wildly different interpretations of it. It seems to serve as something like a Rorschach test, where you are given an inkblot and whatever you see in there says something about your psychological and emotional state.
Of course, I have to say that I could probably offer different understandings of this parable on any given day. But for today, I want to shine a light on this one thing.
When the gardener says to the landowner, “Let it alone,” the Greek word used there has different facets. The word has different meanings, and one meaning is forgive.
In fact, it is the very same word that Jesus uses two chapters earlier when he is teaching his disciples to pray. He says forgive us our sins. As we forgive others. The very same word – forgive them.
Or, let them go.
Let it go, as in, let go of that insult. Let go of that loss, let go of the fact that you did not meet the expectation you set for yourself or the expectation someone else set for you.
Let it go. Forgive yourself. Forgive another. Forgive this fig tree for, once again, not bearing fruit.
Because we, like the fig tree, are far from perfect. We, like the fig tree, might be slow bloomers, we might have long seasons of not meeting our potential, of not meeting expectations, or however you want to say it. But, still, it is good and right to do our best. We don’t measure up, maybe. But we don’t give up.
It is good and right that we seek to bear spiritual fruit. But not by climbing that ladder, rung by rung, beating our sin by our hard work. We take care of ourselves and one another by nurturing our souls the same way the gardener nurtures the tree. feeding the soil around the fig tree. We do well to always feed our spirits – with prayer and scripture, with the fellowship of the community of Christ, together practicing love and service to others – all of this is good medicine. So that we too might bear fruit.
But even in the barren seasons…even when we fail for any of a long list of reasons…God is patient and merciful. God is forgiving.
I say to you today, God will not give up on us.
________________________________
Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash
